


Comedown

by Vialana



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Light Angst, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Realigning to Normal Life, mentions of Sam - Freeform, mentions of jack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:33:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28130199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vialana/pseuds/Vialana
Summary: Life, post-Chuck, was both strange and comforting for Dean. Not every day is a good one though.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Kudos: 24





	Comedown

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is canon divergent in that I basically ignore the finale and no one is dead. It was also supposed to be more angsty than it turned out but I kind of like the way it did end up.
> 
> So, I hope you enjoy it!

The thing about peace was that it wasn’t very conducive to a busy lifestyle as a hunter. Which was good — of course it was good — it was just a little more boring than Dean had expected. Sure, there were still regular hunts and quite a few more salt and burns after the mess Chuck made of the Veil and tearing open Hell, but it was all pretty stock standard. Nothing requiring more than an afternoon of research and a few questions for the locals if needed.

It was nice, at first. Easy. Still risky enough to get the blood pumping, but nothing of an apocalyptic level threat where someone was almost guaranteed to die facing it.

That part was a relief. And Dean wasn’t saying he missed that — absolutely he would take regular boring haunted houses over more death and jerking around from destiny — but it kind of became routine after a while. They had more downtime. And Dean … well, Dean had to find something to fill that extra time with.

Hobbies weren’t something Dean had much time for before. He had them, he just hadn’t had time over the last decade or so to get too involved with them. So, he eased back into some of them.

He picked up guitar again — finding a nice old acoustic at a Lebanon pawn shop one day and making an impulse purchase. He had to restring it, and it took a few tries to tune it properly — the pegs a little loose from disuse — before his first G-chord rang true and clear. He started putting aside a few evenings a week when they were at the bunker to go through the old scales and chords he remembered before moving on to tunes he learned years ago that still stuck in his muscle memory. The calluses on his fingers — built up from triggers and hilts and violence — shifted to accommodate to the pressure of steel strings against a fretboard. Not softening — he doubted they’d ever go away now — but allowing for more memories than that of knives and matches and graveyard dirt. He learned new songs — old favourites and new — and sometimes, when he was certain he was alone enough not to be heard, he even sang along.

Sam had decided to continue cataloguing the library and archives in his spare time (and if he spent a little extra time learning a few more languages as he went or pulling aside some interesting spell books to investigate later then it was all the better for him to keep his mind sharp). Dean wasn’t surprised to find a stack of old cookbooks from the 40’s and 50’s left for him on the library table one day and Sam wasn’t shocked when the very next meal was an almost perfect replication of the unhealthiest recipe Dean could find in the stack. Neither spoke of it, but more modern books appeared on the small shelf in the kitchen by the spice rack over time.

Dean looked after Baby and took her out for nice long drives, but he didn’t always have a destination with every drive. Sometimes he’d just cruise through the back roads of Kansas and watch the scenery, stopping for gas and finding little curiosities and cosy shops he otherwise might have passed by if he were on a hunt. He had time now to actually enjoy travelling.

Speaking of sleep: was there anything more luxurious in life than having the time and ease to spend a day in bed just sleeping in freshly laundered sheets and letting what little worries he now had just fade away? Dean couldn’t think of anything. Maybe the same situation but after having the slow satiating kind of sex that left you warm and boneless and blissful before you slept. Yeah, maybe sleeping after amazing sex. Or a really good meal.

So yeah, things weren’t exactly exciting these days after Chuck, but they were fulfilling. Dean listened to and played music, cooked food he’d always wanted to eat, teased his brother about his cataloguing system, drove his Baby around, caught up on his favourite shows, and slept soundlessly between the few hunts he and Sam took these days.

People visited. Jody and the girls. Donna. Charlie and Stevie. Garth and his family one time on a trip. Bobby. Other hunters. Sometimes to chat, sometimes on their way to or from a hunt. Sometimes to get some help with research or rare ingredients.

Sam tended to look after the more professional calls. He and Eileen hunted together almost as much as he and Dean nowadays. And the library and archives were his project. Sure, Dean helped a little and knew where everything was, but it was Sam’s idea and Sam’s comfort zone, and Dean just enjoyed watching his little brother taking charge and looking happy and confident in his element.

Dean didn’t feel guilty taking a bit of a step back. It should have shocked him, but he was content — Sam was content — with his life now. There was nothing hanging over their heads anymore. No more destiny, no more apocalypses. They could take a break and just breathe and live.

And Dean wanted to live. He did. There was so much he wanted to do now — and he could, even if half of his list was a bit of a joke just to have Sam make his hilarious exasperated face when Dean mentioned a few of the weirder ones that Dean would probably hate. So, he made plans, took impulse trips, tried new things (and started a new list of things never to try again). He cooked, and sang, and hunted, and _lived_.

So, of course, on one of his far less interesting days — when Sam was out with Eileen, no one was visiting, and Jack had wandered into town to visit the kids there — Dean decided to start on the deep clean he’d been planning for the bunker for weeks, only to be derailed an hour in — barely having started.

He found the jacket scrunched up under his bed, tucked right up against the wall, behind a bunch of other crap he’d been meaning to get around to dealing with when he could be bothered to start his cleaning binge.

At first, he frowned, not sure why a perfectly serviceable jacket had been thrown under his bed without being cleaned. Then he saw the stain — a perfectly rendered handprint of blood on the shoulder.

He slumped down on the floor, bones heavy and breath tight, as the memory of grief hit him.

It felt like he was living it all over again. He could smell the ozone of the portal mixed with Cas’s blood and the mildew stuffiness of the dungeon. He pressed his hand to his shoulder — like Cas had done that day — and felt the sharp pain of that seemingly final goodbye rip through his inside again.

Dean didn’t realise he was crying until he took a heaving breath through his mouth and tasted salt. He tried to hold it back, but the pain had come on so unexpectedly and with such intensity that he had to wrap his arms around himself to try and contain the shuddering.

“Dean?”

Dean tried to wipe at the tears and pretend he wasn’t just about to start on a complete breakdown.

It didn’t fool Cas, who hurried into the room — probably having knocked and opened the door to check on Dean when he didn’t respond, all without Dean noticing. Cas knelt next to him, hesitating to put his hand on Dean’s shoulder in comfort when he realised what Dean was holding.

Dean tried to shove it away, but Cas tugged gently on the jacket and pulled it closer to see the handprint.

“I didn’t realise you kept this.”

Dean shrugged. “It’s a good jacket.” The flippant remark came out hoarse. He didn’t look over at Cas, not yet, but he could feel the plea for honesty. And even though he knew Cas wouldn’t push — that Cas understood when something was too much for Dean to talk about right then — Dean sighed and let his shoulders slump. “I shoved it away and didn’t think about it — or I tried to. And then, after I got you back, I stopped thinking about it at all.”

Cas stroked his thumb over the handprint. “I wish I could wash it all away.”

Dean looked over at Cas then, with the hint of a smile threatening to break through his pained expression. “I don’t want to forget. Yeah, it hurts, but pain fades over time. And I got so much more in my life than pain and regrets now.”

Cas smiled. “Yes, you do.” He cleared his throat and pulled back from his comforting closeness to try and bring some levity to the discussion. “For one, you have the delicious lunch I just made waiting for you in the kitchen.”

Dean tried to look suspicious, but the threatened smile emerged and he just appeared fond. “Delicious? You?”

Cas feigned insult. “I’ll have you know that some may consider my sandwiches gourmet.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Jack, for one, loves my PB&J.”

“Oh, well, if Jack says so, then it’s clearly true. I wouldn’t want to miss that.”

Dean was grinning, his earlier grief now just a hum in the background almost drowned out by his delight. Cas stood up and offered him a hand. The slide of their palms against each other still thrilled Dean and he let his touch linger, fingers reaching out to wrap gently around Cas’s wrist as he stood up.

“Give me a minute?” he asked.

Cas turned his arm in Dean’s grip so that his fingers could trace against Dean’s pulse point. “Of course.” Their hands fell apart naturally, but the echo of the touch remained and warmed Dean even after Cas left the room.

He looked down at the jacket, still stained and badly crumpled, and set it on his bed covers. It really was a good jacket, even if the stain wouldn't fade for a long time.

Dean let the grief settle into him again, now a dull ache softened by Cas’ words and presence. It would always be with him — like all his scars — but that was part of life. Grief and joy, boredom, excitement, anger, affection. Peace. Love.

He traced the edge of the handprint once more before leaving his room and going to find Cas, and his dubiously delicious sandwiches.

Yeah, peace wasn’t always happiness, but Dean wouldn’t trade his life right now for anything.

**Author's Note:**

> you can also find me on tumblr: [ladyvialana](https://ladyvialana.tumblr.com/)


End file.
